


Yes, Clint Barton, There is a Santa Claus

by earthseed_fic



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Christmas Feels, M/M, Schmoop, So much schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2012-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-21 07:50:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/595277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earthseed_fic/pseuds/earthseed_fic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton believed in magic. And he believed in Christmas.  And, most importantly, he believed in Phil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yes, Clint Barton, There is a Santa Claus

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Feelstide 2012. I had prompt 54: First visit to a mall Santa as an adult (though I kind of messed that up a bit). Thanks so much to the mods for organizing and for their patience. I hope this brings someone a little bit of holiday cheer.

**Christmas Past**

The thing of it was this: Clint Barton was 12 years old. 

Which, in circus years, was practically middle aged. He was old enough now to have a job for which he was (poorly) paid: he was now solely responsible for the maintenance of all the weapons (bows & arrows, a pair of rifles, a large collection of knives and swords, and an antique revolver) used in various acts. It was a full day's work on most days and being 12 (or wanting to play, or climb a tree and read a book, or explore a new town on his bike) did not get him a pass. He was also old enough now to have his very own act: Clint Barton--World's Youngest Marksman. He was old enough to share the spotlight with Trickshot and old enough to recognize the jealousy building behind the old man's glare.

But the thing of it was also this: Clint Barton was 12 years old. 

He still held his breath each time Marta let go of the trapeze bar and tumbled through the air, high above the audience, without net. He clapped louder than anyone each and every time Klaus caught her just moments before she plummeted to her death. He was amazed at the bravery of Leon each time he put his head in the tiger's mouth or his face beneath the elephant's foot. And he never hid with the other kids outside the illusionist's tent, hoping to find out the secrets to sawing a woman in half or escaping from a padlocked safe. On many (many) days, life in the circus left a lot to be desired. But every single day the circus reminded him that magic was real. And Clint Barton believed in magic.

Two weeks before Christmas they'd rolled into a town, somewhere in the south, someplace where the weather wasn't frigid and folks still had an appreciation for spectacle. They'd set up shop in a large field across a busy highway from a shopping mall. Clint was in charge of cash pick-up--making sure that the gate never had more than a couple of hundred bucks on hand (traveling circuses tended to attract some shady folk). He heard a dad promise his kids they could see Santa after the show. Before that moment Clint had never had any particular desire to visit a mall Santa. He'd never been to one, but, before that moment, wouldn't have counted that fact among the things that sucked about his life. But looking at the glee in the kid's face at the very idea of Santa reminded him of how he felt every time a dozen clowns stumbled out of a ridiculously small car.

After the show, he'd snuck away on his bike, crossed the highway, and found Santa in the mall's Center Court. Now, Clint wasn't stupid (despite what Barney said). But it occurred to him as he stood in the mall of a town whose name he barely remembered, watching parents coo over babies and straighten bow ties and readjust ponytails and wipe runny noses--well, it might not be stupid, but this definitely wasn't his best plan.

The only thing he knew about mall Santas was what he'd seen on TV. The whole thing seemed pretty straightforward. You waited in line, sat on the big guy's lap, asked for something expensive your parents would have to pay off all year, and then you went home. In reality though, there were teenage girls in elf costumes who took parents' money for a photograph with Santa. And there seemed to be more time spent posing on the big guy's lap than there was on wishing. The whole spectacle was…disappointing. Nothing at all like watching Giulio do back handsprings on the highwire. It wasn't like he thought Santa was real (he really wasn't stupid). Still…he expected…more.

He watched for an hour, until the line dwindled and Santa had to take a break. He started to head for the food court (he might as well get an Orange Julius out of this whole debacle) when a voice stopped him. "Son, can I talk to you for a second?" He turned to see Santa walking toward him with intent.

Up close, Clint could see that his beard and belly were real. His red suit was velvet and looked soft and warm. He had the kindest eyes Clint had ever seen, and his smile put him immediately at ease. 

That freaked him out a bit.

"Would you like a candy cane?" Santa asked.

"Isn't this how afterschool specials start?" Clint replied. He knew he should walk away. Strange adults were the enemy of circus kids. But there was something about those eyes.

Santa held out the candy, and Clint took it reluctantly. "I'm not trying to hurt you kid. I just thought you might like to make a wish."

"I don't have any money."

"Wishes are free, last I checked."

"Listen, man. I appreciate the Christmas cheer here, but kids like me don't get wishes."

"Really?" Santa was smiling, but Clint knew, instinctively, that he wasn't being laughed at.

"Really." 

"And yet you came all the way down here. And watched while the other kids made wishes." Clint shrugged. "You're sure you don't have a wish?" 

Clint felt the horrible sting behind his eyes that meant tears were surely coming, and he didn't fucking understand because this was all just so stupid and he didn't believe in Santa anyway.

Plus what would he wish for anyway? There was no money to buy him anything cool, though he didn't really want any of that crap anyway. He wanted things no amount of wishing could bring: he wanted sleep without nightmares, and a brother who wasn't angry, and a home that wasn't a rail car. He wanted to shoot his bow all day long, and wanted people to know that he was smart, and he wanted his life to matter.

"Talk to me," Santa said. 

"I want it to be better," Clint whispered. "I just want it to be better."

 

**Christmas Present**

The first Christmas after the Battle of New York and they were all healing--the city and the Avengers. Looking out over Manhattan from a balcony high up in Stark Tower, the sounds of Pepper's holiday party behind him, Clint could even say that they were healing nicely. Tony giving them all a home in his probably had something to do with that, though Clint would never tell him so. A human being could only be so smug, even if that human was a genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist named Stark.

The sound of the footsteps behind him was unmistakable. "Shouldn't you be inside, boss?"

"I could say the same for you." Clint turned immediately at the sound of worry in the other man's voice. After everything, the last thing he wanted was Coulson thinking it was his responsibility to take care of Clint.

"I'm fine. Just enjoying the view. Walking down memory lane."

Coulson moved closer, until they were standing shoulder to shoulder. "Just as long as you find your way back."

"As long as you're leading the way, sir," Clint smiled. He didn't deserve this anymore with Coulson, but he was selfish enough to take it. "Got any Christmas wishes?"

Coulson rubbed absently at the scar beneath his ridiculously expensive suit. "All things considered, I'm pretty sure I've used up all my wishes."

"Bullshit," Clint said.

"I was on the losing side of a fight with the business end of a god's magic scepter. And I'm here to tell the tale. Let's not be greedy."

Clint shook away the images flooding his brain, the video feed of Coulson bleeding out on the wrecked Helicarrier, the precision with which he'd killed so many of his colleagues. He focused on Coulson, here and now and alive, instead. "You went up against Loki alone, with untested tech, in the middle of a full-scale invasion. That's brave and badass. You're on Santa's nice list forever." 

Coulson smiled and Clint blushed at the naked affection in those kind eyes. "I'm the official SHIELD liaison to the Avengers. I hang out all day with real-life superheroes, including Captain America. How's that for a Christmas wish?"  
It was Clint's turn to smile. Maybe it would all be okay if he still got this, teasing Coulson about his fanboy crushes and addiction to work. "Christmas wishes never involve work, sir. The Avengers are your job. Your wish has to be something personal, something you want just because you want it."

"I have exactly what I want. I have for a long time." Coulson was looking at him intently now, as if willing him to understand.

And then Clint did understand and he backed away quickly. "Phil--"

Phil reached out for him and then thought better of it. He put both hands in pants pockets and shrugged. "Don't freak out, Clint. I'm not asking you for anything. I just--." He took his hands out of his pockets and ran them through his hair. Clint couldn't remember ever seeing Phil so flummoxed. "I've loved you for a long time. And I almost died." Clint flinched. "My last thoughts were about you. My last regret was never telling you."

"Phil," Clint said again.

"You make my life better, Clint. Every day. Just by being you. So don't think that I'm trying to come on to you or--"

"Phil!" 

"What?"

"Do I get to talk?"

"Sure." Phil's tone suggested otherwise.

"Do you know how long I've been in love with you?" Phil shook his head. Clint 's heart melted at the hope in his eyes. "Since that day in Brazil. I was being hunted and I was bleeding out all over your suit, and you didn't shoot me or arrest me or take me in. You asked me what I wanted. 'Talk to me,' you said."

"You deserved a chance."

"And you gave me one."

Phil traced the steps of Clint's retreat and met him where he stood. "Will you give me one? Give us a chance?"

Clint replied with a kiss and it was better than watching acrobats fly through the air on silk ribbons hanging from the big top. Better than forgetting to breathe while watching Khalil swallow a sword. Better even than hearing the crowd roar each time he made an impossible shot with an improbable weapon. 

Because the thing of it was this:

Clint Barton was a grown man with a sordid past and no illusions. He was an assassin-turned-Avenger and he hoped everyday to do enough good to make up for some of the bad he'd done.

But he still believed in magic. And he believed in Christmas. And, most importantly, he believed in Phil. 

And maybe, just maybe, in this tower, with his new team, and the man he loved, maybe things would be better.


End file.
